Como todos los post venideros, éste partirá de una pregunta. De un pozo...la oscuridad es tan infinita como el sinfín sin fondo al cual lleva: ¿Cuál es la importancia de llamarse Otoh-boto? O, de hecho, ¿qué supone un nombre?, ¿qué conlleva nombrar algo? Una pregunta nos aboca a otra; el hueco que el pozo anuncia se ahonda, se vuelve tan amenazante como una boca abandonada a la carcajada.
Entretanto, la sed crece. Se intensifica. ¿Qué hacer? En mi caso, me lanzo:
The transformation was flawless. Hours of mind-dulling exercise streamlined Ambrosia into an angular, hard-bodied creature and tampered with the flow of whatever hormonal juices defined him. So flawless was the transformation that even the nurse and doctor who attended the birth, on seeing him later, marvelled at their carelessness in having declared him a girl.
Ambrosia's obviously vivid imagination gave him both the ability to imagine many sides of a dilemma (and if it weren't already a dilemma, of turning it into one) and the vexing inability to make up his mind. Ever since the days of early high school, where he excelled in thinking but not in doing, this trait of weighing "on the one hand" with "but on the other" earned him a name change. He began, though through no choice of his own to be called Otoh-boto, shortened in time to Otoh, a nickname to which he still answered.
Nota bibliográfica: Shani Mootoo, Cereus Blooms at Night (New York: Harpers Collins), 110.
La esclava tracia suelta una risotada...
